


Heal My Wounds

by FalsettoSlumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Healers, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Mental Health Issues, Post-Hogwarts, Self-Harm, St Mungo's Hospital, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalsettoSlumber/pseuds/FalsettoSlumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, Draco Malfoy's life is on track. Sort of. When Harry Potter re-enters his life, somewhat worse for wear, Draco's life turns upside down once more. Can he help Harry, whilst still healing himself and his mother? Can old wounds be healed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Familiar Face

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fan fiction in an awful long time. My other fics haven't been abandoned, I've just a hit wall with a couple of them. I think a fresh start might make it easier for me to continue my other fics! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_Tendrils of shadows grab at flailing arms, and vertigo seizes him as he feels himself being flipped upside down. The room's corners pull in against him, the claustrophobia gripping him as he feels himself being slowly spun around._

_As his drifting body lazily spins to a halt, his nose mere inches from the point of a wand, he blanches, fingers scrabbling at unseen chains._

_"No-"_

A flash of green startles him awake, and Draco Malfoy sits up, bolt upright in bed, his sheets soaked through with sweat. Scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, he sighs, staring out of the window facing the grounds.

The sun is starting to rise in the east, covering the gardens in a dim sheen of gold, merging with the dark's indigo blanket. The trees just passed the window lean in towards the manor; their tall trunks are thick and silver-grey in the light.

Casting a quick tempus charm, he notes the time - just after dawn - and shrugs, slipping from the bed with notable exhaustion. Placing a light, fluffy dressing gown around his shoulders, he shuffles from the room, shivering in the early morning chill.

The corridor outside is deserted, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief; when it’s time for house keeping, the corridors tend to be busy with the sight of their house elves, rushing to and fro with clean bedding and cleaning polish.

"Poppy?"

He calls for his favourite house elf, who immediately appears next to him with a ‘POP!'. Cleaner than the house elves of his youth, Poppy wears a lightly tied tunic around her torso, the blue cotton embellished with an insignia proclaiming "Freedom4U", a sign that she is a paid, willing house elf. Smiling slightly as he looks at it, he sends the elf off in search for coffee, and perhaps some Danish pasties, and heads off down the hall, to the ground floor.

Pushing a heavy oak side door open, he steps into a light drawing room, a wave of ocean-like scent filling his senses. As the sun begins to rise higher, it sends soft beams of light through the high, large windows. The room is decorated simply, with sage coloured walls, a light wooden floor, and pale, welcoming furniture.

"Good morning, Mother."

Narcissa Malfoy looks up from her seat by the window, placing a bookmark into the heavy leather tome in her hand. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her temples, twisted in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. It falls in cascades down her back, and one tendril is already starting to escape its ornate, silver clasp.

"Draco. Have you broken your fast yet?" She looks at him with steady, pale eyes, and he smiles, gesturing in a roundabout fashion to the kitchen, and she nods.

"I still have not quite gotten used to them being paid. It's always a mild surprise when I see the payment coming from the accounts every month." She remarks offhandedly, as she places the book onto a coffee table, refilling a cup of tea from the self-heating pot beside her.

He goes to sit beside her, curling his long legs under him as he sets himself upon a long sofa, the soft corduroy material comfortable under his weary legs.

"I couldn't sleep again."

"Nor could I, my dear."

"How long has it been for you?" He watches his mother look down, her long, pale eyelashes skimming her cheeks softly as she sighs. Looking up once more at the garden before her, the sun streaking her slightly greying hair softly, she smiles wanly.

Even now, as her life is starting to wane, his mother is still beautiful. No longer strong though, not as before. Now, she is just… soft. Fragile. He smiles along with her, holding her hand in his.

"Too long." She replies softly, glancing out of the window as an albino peacock darts across the lawn, his feathers glimmering in the sun. Bloody creatures. Even after Lucius had died, they still couldn't get rid of them. Though it was not that they had not tried…

The door opens almost soundlessly, and they both turn to look as Poppy appears, nose almost touching the ground in a low bow. In her hands are a tall cafetiere of rich black coffee, and a plate piled high with what look like Draco’s favourite raspberry jam Danishes.

She sets them down on the side, bows low once more, and disappears with a crack as Draco sets himself upon the first pastry.

"When do you start work today, my dear?" His mother looks at him; gone is the look that suggested she thought he was mad for working. Instead, a steady respect shows in her eyes, and he grins, glad for the change in conversation.

"Midday. I have a long shift tonight; won't be home until late. I'll have the elves knock some food up for me when I get in, so don't bother setting a large dinner tonight. I have to return and see Mr Tunbridge today; Merlin knows he'll put me through my ropes again. Bloody man." He mutters the last part of the sentence, thinking of the insufferable wizard's surly manner.

"I should get ready. What will you do today?" He clenches his mother's hand slightly tighter in his own, and she smiled again, somewhat thinly.

"I was considering just sitting here all day again, pondering life… then Miss Ripley suggested that I was letting my demons get the better of me again, so I have decided to spend my day gardening."

It had taken months to persuade his mother to see somebody after the war; she had been getting sadder by the day, even more so when news reached of his father's passing. When he had entered the sitting room one day to see her lying curled in the corner, tears making tracks down her face, he had put his foot down. Alice Ripley was a special Cerebral Healer, focusing on illness of the mind. Since she began working with Narcissa, his mother had slowly started to repair herself, though it wasn't exactly what he would call easy.

"Well, be careful. I don't wish to come home to find you in the pond." He laughs as she rolls her eyes in a most un-Malfoyish way, and he leaves the room, heading back up to his rooms for a much-needed shower.  

As the water crashes against his back in the black marbled cubicle, Draco trails his fingers gently against the Dark Mark on his arm. Strangely, in the few years following the war, he had grown oddly fond of the thing. It was a reminder, to him, of what he had been through. It has already started to fade, of course; his had been on his arm far less extensively as other Death Eaters’ had, and he could see the edges of the ink starting to recede slightly.

Toweling himself dry, he wanders back into his bedchambers, amused that, in the time he has showered, the house elves have already cleared his clothes, made his bed, and even washed the glass doors to his balcony. Obviously, he had spent longer in the shower than he had intended to.

Opening the doors to the outside world, he leans into the cool breeze of autumn, watching as an owl flies down to another part of the manor, probably his mother’s chambers. The sun is high now, telling Draco that it is already nearing midday.

Sighing, he dresses in his work robes, the deep green colours making him snort softly. 

Not feeling like apparating just yet, he walks down the front drive, pondering his nightmare as his feet beat a steady sound against the gravel.

Of course, he knows what it was about. The Muggle Studies teacher may have never taught Draco, but her death had played over in his dreams often enough. Charity Burbage's imprint on his mind had been strong, and he knew he would never forget.

Most of the time, he is viewing as if from the sidelines, as he had been in life, but sometimes, like this most recent episode, he is in her place, waiting for the inevitable end.

Shaking his head, as if to wipe the memory from his mind, he shakes himself, before glancing around. The gardens are beautiful, even now. A low walled garden sits before the house itself, vibrant flowers growing in military-esque patterns. A small wood stands off to the right, birds rustling in the leaves of the trees, and a large, circular stone pond stands in the center of the garden, perfectly in line with the front portico.

The fountain in the middle depicts a strong, majestic wizard; the first Malfoy. His wand is raised solemnly, water pouring from the tip, and his "hair" is carved to give the impression of it blowing in the wind.

Draco finds the stone image sad; it was the beginning of a legacy to him, and not one that had ended well.

Sighing, he raises his wand, spins on his heel, and disappears from the grounds, apparating out as quickly as he can to escape the memories.

His destination is busy as he appears in the designated apparation point; wizards and witches in deep emerald robes rush past as others stand around desks, white robes starched and bright in the false lighting. Coughing slightly, he shoves his wand in his wrist holster, and takes a breath, before stepping into the throng.

"Healer Malfoy! Bed three has been playing up again, please go and see him before I give him a reason to be in hospital." A woman's voice sees him jerking to the side, and Nurse Abbot glares in the direction of his patient's bed. He grins at her, laughing at her expression.

"Hannah, please don't curse our patients. That would just cause them to stay here even longer. A vicious cycle, don't you see?" He sticks his tongue out at her as she directs a mild but painful hex in his direction, and he trots off to bed three as it hits the wall behind him.

"Now, Mr Tunbridge, how are we today?" He smiles brightly at the wizard before him, who glares up at Draco with a baleful impression on his face.

"Much better before a bloody Death Eater showed up to treat me." The man grimaces, and Draco laughs, brushing the ill educated insult aside.

"Now now, Mr Tunbridge, what have we said about insulting your Healers?" He waves his wand over the man, checking his various obs with the well-known charms that display patterns and pulses in the air above him.

The older wizard glares at him even more, crossing his arms across his chest as Draco prepares a syringe needle for Mr Tunbridge's medication.

"Today should be your last day for medicated treatment; give it two more days of bed rest, and you should be fine for going home, provided you don't upset the staff anymore than necessary." Inserting the sharp needle into the man's arm with a little more force than necessary, Draco smiles at him, and his patient "hmphs" in response.

"There now. All done. I'll return in a few hours to give you your second dose. Rest up." Patting the man's leg through the sheets, he draws the curtains about the bed, and sighs.

Though he can’t let the patients see it, remarks like that do hurt still, despite his lighthearted manner. Not that he had ever been a Death Eater, not really. The mark on his arm was only a formality; he had never reveled in the torture as the others had, had never enjoyed watching people die…

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he directs his attention to the entrance doors of the ward, where a slight scuffle seems to be happening.

Drawing his wand in case he needs it, he joins the throng of healers and nurses by the door, craning his neck to see what was happening.

"I'm fine, really, I don't need to be here - hey, put that down, stop - ow!" Draco's mouth falls open as he recognizes the man being restrained.

Even without the signature glasses, the man is instantly recognizable; long dark hair falls scruffily into his eyes, and his muggle hoodie, which has fallen askew, opens to reveal a Puddlemore United t-shirt and scruffy jeans.

Harry Potter struggles against a fellow healer as he staggers across the hallway, pushing the woman aside.

"Really, I'm fine!" He yells angrily at the team trying to placate him, and Draco winces at the harsh tone of his ex-classmate. Pushing through the crowd, he looks for Hannah, sidling up to her as she looks on, a concerned, slightly sad expression on her face.

"What's happening?" He mutters to her out of the side of his mouth, watching as a somewhat heavy-handed healer knocks Potter to the floor, bringing his arms up behind his back. The Gryffindor's face is pushed against the hard, marble floor, and Draco frowns as the team uses sedative spells to calm the man down.

"It's… I think it's complicated. Oh, poor Harry." Hannah sighs, and abruptly, Draco remembers that she, too, was in their year at Hogwarts. Grabbing her elbow, he pulls her aside as the crowd begins to disperse, a calmed and obedient Potter finally being taken away to a nearby cubicle.

"Tell me everything you know. Now, Hannah!" He searches her face, watching as her eyes take on a somewhat guilty look.

"Look, I know you two have history, it's really not my place -" She stops as Draco raises his eyebrows cynically at her.

"Oh, fine. Since the war, there's word that he went a bit… funny. Holed up in his house on Grimmauld Place, not speaking to anyone but Ron and Hermione. Wouldn't even talk to Ginny, or even Neville!"

She blushes slightly at the mention of her husband, and Draco rolls his eyes, grinning slightly as he remembers their wedding. He'd been elated when he'd been invited, as surprised as he had been. It had pretty much been the cause of his friendship with Hannah, and through her, Longbottom.

Glancing over at the cubicle they've shut Potter into, Draco feels something in the pit of his stomach.

"I think the war sent us all funny, Hannah. Merlin knows, the whole thing sent me funny." She crosses her eyes, and throws him a packet of biscuits from the nurse's station.

"I don't think that was the war, m'dear." He scowls at her, about to throw a hex at her, when his wand starts pulsing at his wrist. The red light emanating from the point shows he is being called for, and he sighs, pushing himself off the nurse's station, and shoving the rest of his biscuit in his mouth.

"Thanks Hannah. Gotta go, I'll talk in a bit. When are you clocking off today?" She glances at the Rota taped to the wall, groaning.

"Not for another eight hours." He smiles empathetically.

"Give my love to Neville when you get home. I'm still here for another twelve."

* * *

"Ah, Malfoy, we were wondering when you'd bother to join us." One of the senior healers glares in his direction as Draco enters the briefing area of ward three, and Draco ignores him, leaning against one of the empty beds of the ward.

"I need to assign some jobs to each of you. As young healers, you all need to gain some more experience before you can be let loose on your own, so let's see what you're all capable of…" Draco fiddles with the corner of his sleeve as he listens to Healer Wordsworth babble on. His mind is elsewhere, in Hogwarts corridors and Forbidden Forests…

"…Healer Malfoy, you'll be assigned to cubicle five. Difficult case, came in just now." Draco looks up at his name, blanching slightly as he realizes where he's being sent.

"Could I be assigned a different case, please sir?" He asks hopefully, already knowing the answer, before it's answered.

"No, you certainly cannot. Difficult cases are a challenge for you all, I will not have you weaseling out of this one." Draco scowls, nodding resignedly.

Wordsworth continues to hand out assignments, and Draco glances at the cubicle list to the wall, where cubicle five's occupant is listed in horribly plain text.

Harry Potter.

* * *

"Nurse Tally, could you give me some brief information on Mr Potter's status, please?" He orders the nurse beside him to hand him the clipboard at the end of Potter's bed, and the observing senior healer nods approvingly, scratching a note into a file on her knee. 

"Came in at 12:43, argumentative state, with a mild to moderate overdose of a new sleeping draft in his system. History of poor cerebral health, magical signature apparently unresponsive for the last fortnight, according to the friend that called for us."

 _Shit_ , Draco thinks to himself, as he writes down the information given. At present, Potter is dazed from sedation, unaware of his surroundings. The man's hair is damp from sweat, slicked back from his forehead to reveal the surprisingly fresh looking lightning scar.

Potter's skin is flushed, hot all over, as his temperature soars. Draco is still struggling to take in that Potter has attempted a potion overdose when Nurse Tally leans over, nudging him out of this thoughts.

"Observation spells, Healer Malfoy?" He nods, blinking widely.

The spells above Potter's body glow a vibrant red, showing that whilst the overdose has been quite severe, possibly more severe than expected, he should be fine. Casting a cooling spell over him, he watches, thankfully, as his body temperature slowly goes down, his heart rate regulating.

"Thank you Nurse."

A few more carefully cast spells adjust Potter’s oxygen levels and blood pressure, and the observation spells slowly return to a promising green, glittering slightly in the dim lighting of the cubicle. The charms are tiring work, and Draco is beginning to feel the strain in both his head, and his stomach, which grumbles loudly in protest as another spell is cast to clean the man’s system of the sleeping draught.

As Draco leans over to the side to take a moment to gather his thoughts, a movement from the bed attracts his attention.

“Fucking Hermione, what the fuck, uggh.” The sound of Potter’s voice attracts his attention, and foolishly, Draco spins around, facing away from Potter for fear of being recognized.

“I don’t want to be in here, you know? I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to sleep. Why won’t anyone believe me? Fuck you all.” The vehemence in the Gryffindor’s voice surprised Draco, who winces slightly. Potter continues to rant to himself, as Draco distractedly scribbles some notes down, trying desperately to prolong Potter’s recognition of him.

Sighing, he realizes the attempt is futile, as Potter seems to make an attempt to leave the bed. Turning to the gurney, he raises his wand in what he hopes is an intimidating, but caring way, to try and dissuade the other man from arising.

“If you could please not move, Mr Potter, that would make my job much easier, thank you.” His patient’s eyes open widely, momentarily distracted from his rant as he took in Draco for the first time.

“Malfoy?!” Draco ignores him, waving his wand to reconstruct the tiring observation charms.

“Mr Potter, may I remind you that you are currently under hospital care, and that if you do anything to impede my duties, I am under obligation to sedate you.” He reels off the usual statements as Potter gapes at him, looking uncannily fishlike as his mouth opens and closes in astonishment.

“Might I also suggest shutting your mouth unless you wish to keep impersonating a carp in my hospital.”

Draco inwardly curses himself, remembering that one of his most recent reviews commented on his rather abrupt bedside manner. His supervising healer, sensing something, nods respectfully to Draco, before smiling conspiratorially, and leaving the room.

Potter shuts his mouth briefly, before once more opening it.

“What _are_ you doing here? In a hospital? In healer’s robes?” He sounds more surprised than anything, which leaves Draco feeling strangely thankful.

“Working, yes, in a hospital. Because I’m a _healer_. Before you say anything, no, it’s not fancy dress, I’ve never really been fond of any fancy dress, let alone garish green robes that pull far too many Slytherin jokes from the mouths of certain Hufflepuff colleagues.” He sighs as he scribbles more of Potter’s notes down, and the man blinks at him.

“You, a healer? Are you serious?” He raises an eyebrow at Draco, the challenge in his voice obvious. Rolling his eyes, Draco waves his wand, and the observation spells cease.

“No, I’m joking, I’ve just been working here for a year as a complete joke. Passed all my training just for this day, so I could jump out and say, ha! Fooled you all!” He sneers at the other man, and Potter has the sense to look guilty.

“Sorry, it’s just not what I expected you to do. Thought you’d be living off your family’s money forever, getting married and carrying on the Malfoy name. Guess I was wrong, huh?” His tone is wrong, as he speaks. He’s not speaking to Draco like he’s inferior to Potter, and it throws him off kilter somewhat. He’s speaking to Draco like… like he’s an equal.

“Yeah, you definitely thought wrong.” He pauses, looking questioningly at his abashed patient, sensing a weak moment where he can probe.

“So, what on earth did you do, Potter?” He looks down at his lap, crossing his arms over his worn t-shirt and hoodie and biting his lip. Draco watches the teeth worrying at the pink skin of his – actually rather nice – lips, and coughs slightly.

“It’s… complicated. I did mean what I said. I didn’t want to die. I just… I wanted to sleep. I was tired of thinking, and I wanted to sleep.” Potter’s awkward, his eyes looking anywhere but at Draco. His hands twitch, and clutch at his arms once more, and Draco feels a strange pang of… pity?

“Though…” Draco’s ears prick up as Potter continues without pressing. He bites his lip again, pushing a hand back through his hair, expression looking faintly disgusted as he feels the greasiness of sweaty hair.

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me. I’m a healer, Potter. I’m here to help.” Draco pushes a slightly softer note into his tone, plastering on his ‘here-to-help’ voice as thickly as possible.

“Though, that’s not to say I haven’t wanted to. Before, I mean. I’ve… tried…” His voice trails off, and Draco feels his heart pound. Potter’s voice is starting to waver, and Draco thinks it best to start sidling out of the door.

The nurse in the corner, who has been silent all of this time, pipes up, rushing over with a mug.

“Come on, Mr Potter. Take this, it’s a calming potion, to help you sleep off the effects of the detoxification process.” As Potter drinks the potion, he looks over the rim of the cup at Draco. His eyes are pleading, and desperate, as Draco walks out of the room, door slamming shut behind him.


	2. Relating

“Hannah! Any updates on Mr Tunbridge today?” He sidles into the nurse’s station, as Hannah blinks blearily at her. Her hair is askew, her robes stained with something suspiciously green, and her eyes struggle to focus.

“Long shift?” He raises an eyebrow at her, she nods. 

“I’ve, aah, been here since five this morning.” She yawns widely, and stretches back, bones cracking. Smiling grimly, Draco grabs his stuff from behind the counter, preparing to start the day.

This morning had been a hectic rush; Alice had been over to talk things through with his mother, there had been an unfortunate incident in the drive involving her and a particularly vicious peacock, and consequently, he had arrived at work slightly late, after repairing the nasty nip that had somehow gone through all three layers of the healer’s robes.

“Last I saw of Mr Tunbridge, he was getting ready to leave, muttering about half brained fools, and ill-employed Death Eaters.”

“Oh goody, that means he’s going to be gone soon. I’ll go and give him a cheery send off, thanks Hannah.” Glaring in the direction of Mr Tunbridge’s bed, he clatters the man’s notes down on the side table, noting how he’s just sitting in his bed, clothes ready, arms crossed, glare laid with solid foundations.

“Am I to leave, now, _Mr_ Malfoy?” Draco grins despite everything, and hands the man his discharge papers.

“I think you’ll find that’s _Healer_ Malfoy to you, and yes, here you go, get out of my sight and please, try to stay out. No more fighting with angry garden gnomes.” Mr Tunbridge lets out an unexpected grin, takes the discharge papers, and rushes from the ward, leaving Draco shaking his head, bemused.

 _Time to see my other patient_ , he thinks morosely. He _should_ be discharging Potter today; the detoxification medicine should have run its course now, and though the man would be tired, there would be no more actual illness, which means he can free a bed up.

He is somewhat reluctant to see him go though. It’s been an interesting case, and one that Draco doesn’t feel is quite finished yet.

He walks down the corridor slowly, avoiding the midday rush as his coworkers head down to the canteen for some over cooked, slightly grey lunch. 

“Mr Potter, it’s time for you to go home.” Draco steps agilely through the door to Potter’s cubicle, noting with frustration that the man is still bundled under his covers. A low mumble sounds from within the blankets, and Draco sighs, placing his clipboard of notes on the side.

“Mr Potter, we need to give this bed to other patients.”

No response. He peers over the side of the gurney and looks at his patient; the man is glowering at him from under the crook of his arm, his hair askew, his expression murderous.

“Potter, you have one hour. If I come back and you’re still not dressed – and in clean clothes, I might add – I am _dragging you out myself_.” Spinning on his heel, he grabs his clipboard, and the door swings shut violently behind him.

* * *

“Potter, as your healer and current carer, I demand you get yourself out of this bed and free up the use of hospital services.” Draco had returned to Potter’s room one hour later, after attempting to eat a suspiciously _weird_ tasting jacket potato in the canteen, only to find Potter still in bed, still not dressed, and still wearing the same clothes had had arrived in.

“I’ll pay for the bloody bed if I have to.” Potter pulls himself into a sitting position in bed, drawing the covers up to his chin rather forlornly.

“What? Potter, you have a perfectly good home to go back to, please get yourself dressed. You have been wearing the same shirt for the last two days, and no matter how strong my cleaning charms are, you are _starting to smell_.” The other man sniffs at himself, barely disguising the wrinkle of his nose as he realizes that Draco is, of course, correct.

“Fine, just… give me a minute, yeah?” He sounds resigned, and Draco nods, stepping through the door and turning away.

“Alright. One minute. Sixty seconds, capiche?”

* * *

“Potter, I’m fairly sure that sitting with your head in your hands, still dressed in the clothing you came in, does not constitute being able to leave.” Draco is frustrated, as he turns back into the room. Though Potter has at least made an attempt to leave the bed, he is still not dressed, and his defeated position makes Draco wring his hands in irritation. As he’s about to say something else, Potter stamps his feet, rather like a child having a tantrum, and glares up at Draco, his expression furious.

“I don’t want to go home, okay! Yeah, okay, I spent five months renovating the goddamn place, and what for? So I could have five empty bedrooms, a barely used lounge, and the majority of my kitchen cupboards empty?! I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. Home.”

The man’s outburst is bordering on hysterical, and if Draco didn’t know Potter better, he could swear he sees tears in his eyes. Surprised by the tone of his patient’s voice, he steps forward, almost pleadingly.

“Potter, please just get dressed, and we’ll talk about this like adults.”

“Fine. Can I just… go to the loo or something to change? Or shut the curtains and get you out of here?” Potter’s expression has changed; instead, he looks anxious, eyes darting between him, and Draco nervously.

“Why?” Narrowing his eyes, Draco steps closer, kneeling slightly as if trying to coerce a wounded animal.

“I don’t want to change in front of you.”

“Why? I’m a medical health professional, Mr Potter. You have nothing that I have not seen before.” Potter glares at him, crossing his arms tightly around his chest.

“I doubt that.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Draco looks at Potter, looks at the shirt on his back, and begins to piece two and two together.

“Potter, why have you been wearing the same long sleeved top for the last three days?” His hands stiffen, Draco notes, tight around his forearms.

“I like it.”

“Really? I was always sure that you much preferred the Holyhead Harpies.” Dark hair falls into Potter’s eyes, and Draco’s sure that he sees a flicker of… _something_ … in those deep green eyes.

“What’s that got anything to do with anything?” His tone is defiant, almost nonchalant, though Draco can hear the anxiety straining at his voice.

“Take the shirt off, Potter.”

“Chatting me up now?” Draco blushes bright red, his cheeks hot. Scowling at his patient, he leans back against the door of the cubicle, barring anybody from getting in.

“This is no time for jokes. Take the damn shirt off.”

“I’d much rather go home, actually. Where are my jeans?” Draco feels like screaming in frustration at the stubbornness of Gryffindors, but keeps his composure, remembering his professional training Healing School.

“You’ve changed your tune. Unfortunately, until you cooperate, you are not discharged.” Potter laughs, throwing his head back. The noise sounds false, forced, and Draco flinches at the sound.

“Pretty sure I have the right to discharge myself, Malfoy. Move.” Smiling, Draco sees his opening, shaking his head at Potter in victory.

“Under normal circumstances, yes. However, as you are in our care for cerebral reasons, as opposed to physical reasons, you class as a ward of our care, and cannot legally – nor physically, I might add – leave this ward until I give the word. Which. I. Don’t.”

Potter gapes at him, looking as he had the previous day, carp like, though with far more anger than before. He narrows his eyes, throwing the bedding that he had been fisting at angrily aside.

“Fine! I’ll take the fucking shirt off!”

He stands roughly, and pulls at the shirt, lifting it over his head awkwardly. As the material shifts, Draco tries to ignore the smooth, toned planes of Potter’s abdomen and chest, tries to ignore the slightly tanned colour of his skin – Merlin knows how he’d managed that, being holed up in Grimmauld Place day in, day out – and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as the shirt comes all the way off.

“Harry, I – Potter.” Potter’s arms are as tanned as his stomach, the muscles relaxed but still obvious under his skin. Any other day, any other man, Draco might have imagined being held in those arms, but it isn’t that that he’s paying attention to.

Running down from the tops of Potter’s shoulders, all the way to his wrists, the skin is marred with wounds; slashes of angry red skin, raised bumps, older, whiter lines. They ring around his arms, horizontally, and run down his arms vertically. They look sore, some swollen, some clearly worst for wear. It’s clear that Potter hasn’t been paying attention to the cuts, clear that he doesn’t care to prevent infection. One particularly violent cut, a deep one running from the crook of his elbow to his wrist, looks raised, the skin tinged slightly purple. Draco knows that if he touches the skin, it will feel hot and clammy under his fingers.

“You happy now?” Potter sounds vulnerable, small and scared as he stands before Draco. His voice wavers, despite his obvious wish to sound emotionless. Draco takes in a breath, before steeling himself.

“Those need dressing. That one looks infected. Lay there, and I’ll be right back with dressings and disinfectant. Don’t bother trying to leave, the door is warded.”

* * *

Five minutes later, Draco sits beside Potter’s bed, dapping wound cleaning potion into the cuts. The purple concoction sticks to the wounds, smoking slightly as they start to work. The man winces as Draco tends to the one on his forearm, biting his lip as the potion stings his flesh, and Draco knows it will.

“I’m afraid, because they’re so infected, and because a lot of them are so deep, that these will scar. There’s not much I can do to prevent that.” Potter nods, almost to himself, brushing him off.”

“S’fine.” His jaw is set, and teeth clenched as Draco points his wand at the cuts, vanishing the torn, jagged skin until it forms into a multitude of raised, white scars.

“How did you… how did you manage this, Potter?” Draco isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, if he’s honest. The appearance of Potter’s cuts is making him feel somewhat ill, and it’s taking all of his energy not to run, screaming, from the room.

“Hmph. I dunno. A mix of things; classic hex work; one uncomfortable incident with my fire grate. The knife I inherited from my Godfather.” He looks down at his knees, eyes lowered in thought. _Black’s knife_ , he thinks to himself. That must have hurt.

“They’re… they’re bad.” Potter’s eyes snap up to his, his expression irritated. He rolls his eyes, gesturing to his eyes. Not for the first time, Draco notices that he no longer wears glasses.

“I’m not blind. I got contacts.” Draco has no idea what “contacts” are, so just nods his head in agreement, not pushing the issue.

“I know,” he starts carefully. He carefully choose his next words, “we can help, Potter.”

“I don’t want help.” Draco lets out a groan of frustration, sighing at the stubborn man before him as he contemplates a particularly difficult wound at his shoulder.

“Be that as it may, you _need_ it.” He looks pointedly at the cut beneath his wand, and Potter at least tries to look abashed.

“And what would you know about any of it, Mr Perfect Job Perfect Life?” The insult stings, and Draco feels his stomach clench as he considers his answer.

Sighing, he pushes the sleeves of his own robes up to his elbows, revealing the silver marks of old scars on his forearms. They’re older than Potter’s, far older. Better tended too, as well, he notes, pleased, as he sees how well the scars blend in with the creamy colour of his skin. Potter’s eyes widen, and his hand automatically moves to  - what, touch Draco’s skin? He never finds out; the hand stops in midair, and the man pulls it back roughly.

“I know plenty.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Potter has finally accepted defeat, and has packed his things. He’s wearing clean clothes; a new, long-sleeved t-shirt that Draco had to run out and buy for him across the street, and his hoodie, freshly washed by laundry maintenance.

They’re sat in the canteen together; Draco has finally managed to sit down for a break after a ten-hour shift without pause, and is frankly not looking forward to the final hurdle of another six hours. Long days are his least favourite types of shift, and he cannot wait for this one to be over.

“So, what’s your story, Malfoy?” Potter raises an eyebrow, cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hands. They’ve only just bought their drinks and food, but already, they’re losing heat, and what little taste they originally had.

“Well, first of all, don’t you think we should perhaps drop the surnames? I mean, as much as I’ve made peace with my family name, it’s a bit tiring to hear it all of the time.” Draco’s unsure of himself; even Blaise and Pansy still call him Malfoy more often than not, from force of habit.

To his surprise, Potter – Harry – seems relieved about the request. Smiling, he nods, sipping at the rank coffee before grimacing.

“Sure. That’s fine by me. So, _Draco_ , what’s your story?” Draco’s name sounds strange on Harry’s lips, foreign, like he’s just testing out.

“I would have thought it would be obvious. I can’t say having the Dark Lord live in your house is particularly beneficial to a healthy mind. It was just an escape I suppose. If I could hurt myself worse than he hurt me, it wouldn’t be so bad. Unfortunately, not much holds its own against such spells as the Cruciatus curse, so whilst it was an excellent theory, it wasn’t so successful in practice.” Harry nods, understanding, as he tests the coffee once more, before giving up and pushing it away.

“Hermione and Ron… they don’t understand. They know about it, of course. It’s stupidly hard to hide anything from ‘Mione, and once she knows, Ron’s bound to. They try to, it’s not like they don’t care. They just…” He trails off, and Draco smiles sympathetically.

“I know.” Silence falls as they finish their food, and with a rough scrape of his chair, Draco stands up from the table.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Can you promise me that you’ll stay out of my hospital for at least a month?” Harry laughs, nodding as he pushes his rucksack higher on his shoulder.

“I promise. Do I have to have any follow up stuff? Checkups, and things?” He looks worried, and Draco sighs.

“Well, I’ve put you through to the Department for Cerebral Healing. I’d like you to at least try some sessions with a healer there, just to see if it would help. I’ve also referred you to the dermatology team, to see if there’s _anything_ we can do about that scarring.” He feels awkward, as if he’s gone back into healer mode. Harry smiles a small thanks, and leaves the canteen by himself, leaving Draco to throw the majority of his dead potato in the bin before heading back down to the ward for the rest of his shift.

* * *

By the time his shift is finished, Draco is exhausted, and it takes everything he has to manage the floo home, not in the mood for a walk down the drive. Collapsing into an armchair by the fireplace the second he arrives back at the manor, he pulls a hand through his hair. It feels rough, and after a second he remembers an episode earlier, when Mrs Pertrow in bed seven projectile vomited all over him.

Sighing, he drags himself to his feet once more, desperate for a shower. As he exits the room, he sees his mother walking down the corridor towards him, her gracefulness carrying into her walk.

“Draco. How was work today?” He attempts to dislodge a lump of what he suspects is more of Mrs Pertrow’s vomit, possibly her breakfast from the day before. Shuddering he turns to Narcissa, smiling grimly.

“The usual. Gross, stressful, and weirdly rewarding. You won’t be able to guess who I had to look after for the last two days.” She frowns momentarily, before shaking her head, hair tumbling over her shoulders in evening disarray.

“None other than Harry Potter himself.” His mother’s eyes widen momentarily, before she shakes her head, bemused.

“I cannot say I am surprised.” He frowns, his expression questioning.

“I have heard tell that Mr Potter is not in the best of ways as of late. Call it whispers on the grapevine, if you will.” Draco snorts. Why is he not surprised that the entirety of the wizarding world, including his own mother, seems to know more about Harry Potter than him?

“Anyway, Mother, I am off to remove these suspicious lumps of bodily fluids from my hair. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He heads off up the stairs, struggling with the top layer of his robes as he goes.

Reaching his chambers, Draco discards his disgusting work uniform, leaving it on the rail for the house elves to take care of. His view on house elves may have changed; he occasionally makes his own breakfast to give them a small amount of relief, but he’ll be damned if he’s washing that disgusting pile of filth.

Turning the shower on as hot as he can, he plunges himself under the deluge of water, feeling the heat scorch his back in a way that feels almost pleasant. Sighing, he leans back against the cool tiles of the shower wall, watching as water rolls down his skin, to disappear down the drain.

He wonders what Harry is doing at the moment, and squints his eyes shut, shaking his head. He hasn’t stopped thinking about the bloody man all day, and Draco is not about to let him ruin his shower, the best part of his day so far. Soaping his hair with his favourite citrus scent, he rubs soap suds to scourge the disgusting scent of vomit and bodily fluids from his skin.

Sighing, he leans into the water, feeling the droplets run down his face. As the pressure of the water hits his back, he feels his muscles begin to unwind, and he slowly inches a hand downwards, gripping himself in the heat of the shower. Merlin knows, he rarely has time for himself anymore. Who would have known healing would be such intense, demanding work?

Stroking himself in strong, languid movements, he leans his head back, allowing the water to plunge down onto his face and chest. Groaning, he moves his hand quicker, leaning against the marble tiles with his other hand. Heat begins to pool in his stomach, and, unbidden, a face swims lazily into his imagination, green eyes blinking softly, dark hair flopping messily into them. Gasping, Draco opens his eyes as the heat peaks, and he comes against the shower wall.

“Shit.” Staggering back, he watches as his seed disappears down the drain with that water, and wonders where the hell that thought came from.

Stumbling out into the bathroom, he gropes against the sink, staring at himself in the mirror, wide eyed and heart thudding.

There are still soapsuds in his fringe as it flops into his eyes, and he pushes it back from his forehead, running a hand down his face. Draco’s skin is pale in the bathroom’s lighting, and the tension in his shoulder muscles has almost immediately returned. 

Splashing his face with cold water, he pauses as he hears something from his bedchambers.

Cautiously moving back into the room, being careful not to drip all over the expensive cream carpet, he sees an owl tapping impatiently against the balcony windows.

Grumbling, he wraps a towel about his waist, going to let the owl in. It’s a pretty thing, a female tawny with large, golden eyes and a good strong wingspan.

“You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you? Whom do you belong to?” He sees a small scroll attached to the owl’s left leg, and, being wary in case she’s a biter, unravels it from her. She barely blinks, and he rummages in a side drawer for an owl treat.

She takes it from his hand with barely a nip, and he smiles at her, stroking her soft-feathered head.

“Good girl. You have a lucky master.” She gives a low hoot, then takes off back out into the night, her wings catching the moonlight as she flies low.

Chuckling, Draco unrolls the parchment, heart thumping.

_Draco_

_I don’t want to see a healer about this. I can’t face talking to somebody else about everything._

Draco curses, about to throw the parchment away in frustration, when he realizes there’s more to the note.

_Could you possibly see me some time next week? I think I trust you._

_Harry_

Eyes wide, Draco quickly scrawls a response, and clicks his tongue out of the window. Immediately, his imposing eagle owl lands heavily on the balcony railings, preening his feathers as Draco attaches the reply to his leg. Throwing him a small treat, Amadeus takes flight once more, following Harry’s owl into the darkness. 

Throwing himself back onto the bed, Draco’s sighs once more, staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“Fucking Harry Potter.”


End file.
